


It's The Little Things

by ShahHira



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Badly Described Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Independent Contractor McCree, M/M, Normal Size Jesse, Tiny Hanzo, descriptive depictions of anxiety, except they tiny for no real reason, inspired by the Tiny Kitchen series, like a borrowers AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-04-24 07:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14350329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShahHira/pseuds/ShahHira
Summary: For a guy who thinks big, Jesse sure is someone who dwells on the smallest of details.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I... don't know what came over me.
> 
> I was watching like, 7 Tiny Kitchen episodes in one sitting, hopped up on meds that made me very excitable, and I screamed about it in the Trans McHanzo discord server. One thing led to another aaand I wrote this is 8 days for no real reason other than how cute it is.
> 
> And yeah I don't have too detailed of a plan for... the rest of this stuff, soooooo I'm taking ideas?
> 
> Beta'ed by Skippy! Check them out on ao3~!

The life of a carpenter is not the most exciting thing in the world.

Sure, Jesse thinks it’s rewarding. It keeps the creative parts of his brain flowing in a way his last job hadn’t, toiling to shape the wood under his hands that has his own unique flavor. A satisfying labor; he always _was_ an outdoorsman.

Could do without the splinters, though. Or the sawdust he’d magically snort through his mask. Annoying as all hell.

A bell rings from down the hall.

Leaning back in his chair, Jesse cranes his neck out his bedroom door. He scowls, then lets out an exaggerated groan that certainly echoes across the house. The bell rings again, more incessantly.

And then, well… this is hard to explain.

He takes his sweet time getting up, stretching out sore muscles from a long day of being hunched over his work station drawing up blueprints and saves his work, putting his tablet into sleep mode. The faucet squeaks in protest as he washes his hands in the cramped bathroom; he makes an idle note to look at that, even though he knows he’s never going to get around to doing it. The cons of growing attached to a run-down old ranch house…

The bell rings a third time.

He scowls. “I’m comin’, hold yer damn horses,” he bellows, knowing full well the intent behind it. Well - two can play at that game.

Making a sneaky detour to the closet he shoves his feet into his boots. Pettiness consumes him.

Step by agonizingly slow step he mosies down the hall. Each footfall is accompanied by the jangle of spurs, drawn-out and heavily accentuated.

The bell rings madly now. Followed by a faint indecipherable yell.

Jesse snickers. Hook, line, and sinker. He steps up to a wall hanging in the hallway.

“Boy golly,” he hams up his accent, aimed to provoke, “this picture of Fareeha givin’ me a noogie is so gosh darn embarrassing. Good thing I live alone so no one can ever ogle at my ugly mug, yessiree.”

“You have used that taunt three times already. Are you even _trying_ to get a rise out of me, cowboy? Step up your game.”

And then there was his housemate.

Cheekily peeking around the corner, Jesse drifts his gaze down… down… down…

And spies Hanzo - crossed arms showing his ire, impatiently waiting next to the standing bell, clothed in a dirtied apron. Which is covered in flour.

And so is the floor surrounding him, too.There he stands in the middle of the mess, tiny and diminutive, glaring daggers at Jesse.

Well - housemate isn’t the best term.

See, he doesn’t know how everything led up to this peculiar situation they’re in: how a bored carpenter’s side hobby of crafting tiny furniture turned into a borderline obsessive passion project of painstakingly assembling a fully-functioning miniature kitchen in the corner of his actual kitchen. He can’t quite pin down what exactly triggered this: the challenge that beckoned to take his skills to the next level, to test the limit of how disciplined he could keep his hands from shaking, manipulating the tiniest of objects in his large hands. Or perhaps it was simply the cuteness of it all.

All of which could’ve been fine and dandy. Except for the time when Jesse staggered out of bed one night from a rare nightmare, and stumbled upon the smell of burnt fish - and lo and behold, a five-inch tall person in the form of Hanzo manning his tiny kitchen, caught in the act of waving a teacloth to wash away the curling smoke.

Jesse crouches, arms rested on his thighs. “Clean up yer own damn messes,” he says, eyeing the still-settling cloud of flour clogging the air.

At this Hanzo bristles. “Of course I am cleaning up my own mess. But how am I to continue cooking without any flour?”

It’s then that Jesse sees the pinky-sized bottle of flour that he is pointing at, toppled over and emptied of all it’s contents.

“You’ve been sitting on that chair all day anyway,” Hanzo continues. “I figured you could use the break.”

“What I need to do is finish Satya’s commission.” Jesse gets up to retrieve the flour from the pantry. “She’s been waiting on it long enough, and I don’t wanna delay it any longer than this weekend, since she’s a loyal client an’ all.”

“If she is such a valued customer, then she will understand that you need to take your time to design her proposal.”

“That only works one time,” he argues. “And even then it erodes trust between the contractor and the client. After that, it’s just a flimsy excuse.”

“And has Satya ever had a reason to distrust you?”

Jesse pauses to look up from refilling the flour vial. He’s right. Fastidious people like Satya are rarely tolerant of dealing with setbacks. Jesse has the inkling that it has more to do with the company she represents and less of her admittedly aloof attitude; although that much is true, he’s seen the hints of sarcastic wit and fierce burns she’s capable of doling out at the most unexpected of times. It’s left Jesse reeling with pleasant surprise during their frequent business meetings.

The carpenter deflates, handing Hanzo his now-full vial. Outplayed as always.

“Grab a match for me and I will resume cooking. Feel free to watch a master at work.”

How can Jesse say no to this walking handful of smugness? Jesse inelegantly flops down, legs stretched out on the hardwood. “Yessir.”

______

“McCree, don’t be a baby and cut these onions.”

“Why don’ you cut ‘em, since yer so tough an’ all,” he grumbles, valiantly resisting the urge to itch at the tell-tale sting in his eyes - even though the onion he’s cutting is about as round as a large marble.

“There, now was that so hard?”

“Hey, hey, watch your fingers!” Jesse’s not even done chopping before Hanzo’s scooping up the rings of onions, throwing them into the bowl of ice water.

He’s leveled an unimpressed glare for his outcry, and simply elects to cryptically say, “I know my way around sharp objects.”

The glance that darts down to the knife that’s pinched between Jesse’s thumb and finger is almost suggestive.

“Weirdo…” is all Jesse says, storing this information for later. They’ve known each other for months now, but Hanzo has always been very secretive about his past and background.

Nevertheless he chooses to dwell on that later, prepping them for the breading process. “Think the deep frier’s gonna work this time?”

The answer comes a bit pensive. “Hm… perhaps two matches might work? At the very least it is necessary to have a constant heat source so they fry instead of merely becoming saturated in oil.”

He nods. “Lemme know how it goes.”

Jesse turns to get started on cooking his own meal. The sizzling behind him bolsters his admittedly half-hearted attempt at spoiling himself with a creamy mushroom soup whose recipe he’s been eyeing for some time, saving it for a rainy day. The temptation of a toasty and filling meal to ward off the cold November weeks is quite possibly his only motivation, since not even the relaxing act of cooking can stave away the painful pull of tension in his neck. Ugh, he _really_ should be more mindful of his posture…

A distant skittering rattles the loosened cabinets to his right. A moment later, Hanzo pops up on the counter.

Jesse lays his palm facing upwards. “Hop on.”

They’ve developed this routine of theirs, but Jesse’s heart still jumps when he uses his hand as an elevator to deposit Hanzo onto his shoulder, a spot of unmistakable warmth seated snugly in the crook of his neck like a parrot, providing equal amounts praise and running commentary on his ameteur cooking techniques. Though his tiny friend is adept and agile in impressive ways, it stills worries Jesse - that he might make a wrong move and accidentally squish him, or move too fast and send him hurdling to his demise. There were so many paths that ended in death that Jesse was suddenly made all too aware of whenever Hanzo was in sight. And out of sight, for that matter.

So basically his every waking moment. It’s not helping his anxiety in the slightest, that’s for sure.

The hardest part of the recipe is done when he finishes cutting all the vegetables, disregarding some ingredients (“Celery is good for you, McCree.”) and throwing in other, more flavorful ones (“One day, there will come a time where you will run out of Sriracha." threatens Hanzo).

As usual, the smell wafting from the bowl of soup he tentatively holds does little to distract him from the pinch of Hanzo’s grip: one hand on the hanging tip of his earlobe and the other fisted in his beard, each sway of his little body sending Jesse spikes of unease and making him acutely vigilant of his every movement.

Jesse swoops down to pick up the bite-sized plate of onion rings, settling on the couch with a sigh and pulling up a streaming app on the TV.

The food is eaten up all too quickly. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was; it had only been fifteen minutes, and Jesse was left with a scant few pieces of previously fluffy bread that had gone cold, hardly suitable to scrape up the remaining drops of soup. Hadn’t even tasted the damn thing. And that had been half the pot, too.

“I did not know you found advertisements so riveting.”

Of course Hanzo had noticed.

Jesse can’t put up with his ribbing. Not today. He rolls his head to the side, wincing at the tell-tale stiffness of his finger joints. Double damn. “I’m turnin’ in early.”

Soon as he says it, he remembers: no, he can’t. Satya’s commission is still unfinished.

“Promise me.”

What he doesn’t account for, though, is for Hanzo’s stubbornness to shine through all his bullshit. Fingers pull at his beard to the right. “Look me in the eye and promise me you will go to sleep.”

At this distance there’s absolutely no mistaking the sincerity that resides in his gaze, that hardens Hanzo’s brow with determination.

“Tuck yourself into bed, and then I will let you go,” he has the confidence to negotiate. “Don’t even think of tricking me.”

Jesse flicks a finger in the air, clicks his tongue in mild irritation. “You’re on my right shoulder, but I’ll be damned if yer my angel…”

 _That is completely and utterly false,_ Jesse’s own mind retaliates with a speedy rebuttal that leaves him reeling with a rush of affection for the man on his shoulder. His angel; whether he believes it or not.

He doesn’t think he might ever realize it: but Hanzo will never know how much of a help he’s been to Jesse.

He grumbles good-naturedly, “Oh yeah? You and what army?” But it’s clear Jesse gives in without a fight, humoring Hanzo’s teases and needling back with his own.

A good end to a stressful day, Jesse reflects as he falls face-first into bed. “Turn the light off before you leave,” he says to Hanzo, who’s sitting on his nightstand.

It’s ten PM. Jesse’s snores are the only noise in the bedroom. Unbeknownst to him, his guardian angel lingers for the better part of the hour: staying, waiting, making sure the carpenter does not stir in sleepless restlessness. He’s sleepwalked to his desk once: an assortment of wobbly dimensions of boxes drawn over an important client’s draft of a table. Ctrl-Z could not save him.

It’s only when midnight strikes that Hanzo takes his leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi wow I have been gone for a long while and this is the first thing I post? yeah I need to get my priorities straight
> 
> I just like this idea a lot, it's cute to me. I AM HOWEVER working on the last chapter of LaF so do not worry, that is getting closer to being done! Thanks for sticking with me!

“Hanzo? You there?”

Jesse waits, taking weight on his tiptoes to peer inside an open cabinet. He squints inside the relative darkness. Only rows of seasonings and spices greet him.

There’s no answer. With a groan he heaves himself up, feeling his lower back creak in offhand protest.

He moves on to the next cabinet. “You in here?”

Nope. “You got ten minutes, partner!” he opts to yell instead, hoping that wherever Hanzo is in his maze of cabinets and cupboards, he would hear him.

A crick in his neck makes itself known and it twinges. He rolls his shoulders, trying to dislodge the worst of it as he surveys his surroundings. He goes down the list: the living room had been vacuumed, wooden floors swept and mopped twice over, bathroom sparkling like it had been recently installed. Only the kitchen remained.

A muffled knock comes from the upper cupboard next to the built-in microwave. It rattles on its hinges by an unseen force.

The carpenter opens it, grinning up at a familiar face. Relief slides down his spine. “You know yer a damn weasel sometimes?”

Hanzo’s form pops out against the shadowed darkness, flanked by miscellaneous cleaning supplies and various ominous shapes of stacks of pots - all perfectly neat and organized, down to the last millimeter.

“Then that would make you a grizzly bear,” he replies, smugness plainly framed by the stray locks of hair that escape his ribbon. Upon closer inspection his chest rises with repressed movement, exhales lingering. He is faintly out-of-breath and trying to conceal it, leaning as casually as possible against the inside of the cupboard.

Jesse winks, throws up a finger gun. “World’s hairiest. Kitchen’s all squared away?”

He nods. “Rearranged to Mrs. Amari’s liking. Of course, if you had obliged her in the first place, we wouldn’t be in such a rush. You really should keep your cabinets more organized.”

“Oh, so you’re on her side now?”

“I was never on your side to begin with.”

So much goddamn sass in that tiny, tiny body.

Somehow, as it always does, the banter manges to settle the worst of his anxiousness. He knows it’s unwarranted but his excited energy needs to be expended - the stress of anticipation pulses his stomach, makes the sweat speed down his armpits. If business casual came in flannel form, then Jesse’s sorry to watch it get soaked.

And really, it’s not outright fear that makes him so overworked. Ana and Fareeha are practically his family. Logically, he knows it’s just his body’s biology screwing around; his nerves must’ve gotten crossed a bit too many times the wrong way throughout his roller-coaster of a life.

And despite the troubles his sprawling ranch house gives him on a regular basis, Jesse can’t imagine wanting to live anywhere else - he really couldn’t.

The doorbell rings.

“Jesseeeeeeeee!”

The door croaks in oft-abused protest as its hinges valiantly keep from shattering against a series of thundering knocks.

Maybe he should rethink that a little.

Jesse finds a steadying calm in Hanzo’s eyes, doing his best not to flinch. How many times has he told Fareeha  _ not  _ to do that?

“You know the drill.” He tilts him a look. “And this time, if you stay outta trouble,” the tease shining in his eyes not so subtle as he makes it out to be, “maybe I’ll even get ya a pet weasel.”

Even as he reaches the front door Jesse can hear an indignant cry which leaves him fighting to keep his composure: “It is no pet! It shall be a mighty steed.”

As usual, the Amaris burst in like a party of six even though they are but two women, and begin making their routine fuss over how much money this giant two-story house must send a monthly shock to Jesse’s poor wallet in the form of a mortgage. First off, he wants to say, his freelancing pay ain’t that bad, and two, he’s said time and time again this derelict heap has been officially under his name for quite a few years now.

It’s nice that they’re thinking about him though, when Fareeha punches his arm and nags at him to “get a roommate, you have so much space you’re wasting” - or when despite all his cleaning Ana somehow spies the tiniest of dust bunnies congregating in a corner of the living room, wagging a motherly finger in well-meaning concern.

It’s the kitchen where this patchwork family comes together; with her sharp gaze and tall daughter Jesse isn’t even surprised when Ana pulls out a can of forgotten chickpeas from the depths of his pantry.

“Fareeha,  _ habibti _ , it’s been too long and I am craving some falafel. Let me see if I still remember how to do this…”

The twinkle in her remaining eye lights up, and Jesse doesn't feel so bad as he abandons his usual plans for a quiet evening in favor of keeping these two company. He cocks his head in mild intrigue. Huh. He doesn’t even eat chickpeas.

A light slap to the back of his hand brings him to attention; the chickpea can has been upended into a bowl, rinsed, flash-boiled and left to soak for the recommended hour. Guess Ana really  _ is _ fired up about this…

Jesse gets to work, cheekily shoving himself in between the very small space that both Amaris occupy, snickering like an immature child as he’s beset by pestering jabs from either side, both verbal and physical. He eyes the ingredients: scallion, parsley, cumin, coriander, parsley, cilantro, all kinds of delicious-smelling spices. His mouth is already watering; Ana’s husband Reinhardt is usually the main cook among the two, so it’s an extra special occasion when she chooses to cook up a rare meal.

A grater, cutting board, and sharp knife slide into view, followed by the wet thumps of washed cucumbers, lettuce, and tomatoes.

Jesse lets out an exaggerated whine as Ana’s words hold a gentle but firm command, “Be a dear and cut up all these vegetables for the yogurt dip. Chop chop, young man.”

She claps daintily, but there is nothing innocent about her sly smirk. The carpenter sulks, but resigns himself to this duty - for the only downside to her cooking is becoming a loyal assistant in her kitchen.

But it gives them alone time, a chance to bond during their hectic lives. Fareeha brags about the level of security clearance she’s managed to secure this time (front-row plus backstage passes to Egypt’s state-of-the-art and prototype weapons expo, the largest in the Middle East), her climb up to achieving the most distinctions awarded in as many martial arts she can get herself involved in (previous records soundly crushed), and her latest basketball tournaments (two wins one loss).

“And what about you, Jesse?” she asks. “How’s your little project going?”

The teasing look is telling. It glimmers a bit too much to be simply playful. Jesse forces down the instinctive urge to scowl, flat laughter his only response. The Amaris are the only ones who know about his pet project. It had taken a lot of courage to disclose the reason why he didn’t mind staying cooped up in his home, that he was fine all by his lonesome and no, he most definitely didn't need any pets in the house to keep him company. Not like any other pet could top the legacy that was Lucy and Joel. That cat and dog duo had died side by side along with his plans to keep any other pets after them.

Suffice to say he had been unable to keep it his own personal secret for long. Not that there’s any reason to be embarrassed. He isn’t. Really.

A burst of laughter sends a flash of heat up his face. He snaps a glance to the side; Ana had snorted a bit too loudly at something Fareeha had said.

Of course, his anxiety has other plans. The reactions he gets on a daily basis are reflexes long anticipated. He is so familiar with their tells that he can pinpoint the exact moment it strikes. 

And yet, he is never prepared for when it hits. He hates that it makes him suspicious of those he trusts. That it makes him think of the Amaris, who are a part of his closest family, as people who wouldn’t hesitate to make fun of his interests, no matter how silly they might be.

He hasn’t told anyone about Hanzo, though. No, then they’d  _ really  _ think he’s crazy.

He does his best to focus on the assortment of spices pleasingly assaulting his senses instead of the food processor that screams at erratic intervals, pulsing around his ears. The noise sends claws scraping down his nerves; he tamps down the fight-or-flight response that comes with each jump. Ugh, he should've taken a double dose of his anxiety meds beforehand…

The Amaris don't notice, thankfully. He doesn't want them to. He’s been through worse. There’s no way he's going to ruin their rare evenings together.

His wish is granted. The last of the falafel is scooped up from the bubbling oil, dark brown and perfectly round. Flakes come scraping off at the lightest pressure of a fingernail, revealing a crunchy exterior.

Fareeha laughs as Jesse bites down - and he realizes his mistake when he breaks out into short breaths, too impatient to wait for them to cool down before digging in. The soft interior is much too satisfying to regret his action, though, as Fareeha thumps him in the back. Ana hasn't lost her touch, it seems.

“I changed my mind.”

The kitchen sink is running, soap bubbles swallowing up to his wrists by the time Jesse bids the Amari's farewell. Jesse raises an eyebrow, waiting for Hanzo to elaborate.

The challenging look he sends perched atop the open cold tap like a gargoyle is clear. “I want a ferret. No, two ferrets. Companion animals like these must require a playmate to bond with lest their sociable instincts are not indulged.”

Jesse flicks a soap bubble at him. “That would be you, smartass.”

The assault is much too bubbly for Hanzo, who leaves him be to finish washing the remaining dishes. “Ferrets, huh…” Jesse mumbles, letting himself imagine. Although it’s been years the memories are still too raw to linger on the happy moments of his life before Hanzo came into the picture.

But what Fareeha said is true. It’d be nice to liven up the house with a few fresh faces. Human or otherwise.

Lost in thought, it takes a minute for Jesse to realize why his sixth sense is ringing alarm bells - until he glances to his right.

“Hey, hey! Hands off-” That little rascal’s gonna be the death of him.

Soap suds are sent flying as Jesse jogs over to protect his precious stash of leftover falafel from Hanzo, who is rolling one whole ball off the plate with surprising speed.

One finger is enough to stop his momentum. Jesse looks down disappointingly. “You backstabber. You lyin’, thievin’, no-good two-bit double-crossin’ mountain goat of a ninja. Why I oughta... Oh, you think this is funny, eh, tough guy?”

Said tough guy is holding himself very still, eyes wide with eyebrows raised and pinching his lips in what Jesse recognizes is a last-minute ditch effort in containing his laughter, seconds away from bursting. Hanzo can never hold back the amused exasperation when Jesse goes into full Western-mode - a reaction which Jesse never tires from pulling from the proud man.

Good thing Hanzo likes to humor his theatrics with some of his own when he belts out, “A compromise, then: I shall make you some pecan pie in return for your generosity.”

“One design flaw, bud: you ain’t bigger than a shot glass. How am I supposed to enjoy, let alone  _ taste  _ something the size of my pinkie?”

“It is the thought that counts.”

God damn it, he was right.

And he knows it too, by the way he flashes a triumphant grin up at Jesse, who admits defeat with a shake of his head. He isn’t in the mood to fight back anyway. His thoughts turn to his cooking channel; he hasn’t updated it in a while, and people are starting to notice his absence.

“Mind if I use your kitchen?” he asks even though he’s the one who built everything here. 

The voice that answers back leaves the air tinged with bated breath: “...I only have but one request-”

“Fine, I’ll spin you on the Lazy Susan,” McCree yells back, waving him off. “You win. Just be careful this time.”

His cooking channel, the Tiny Kitchen series, had evolved spontaneously, borne of a desire to combine the pros of the delicious-looking meals made on the Food Network channel, without any of the grating celebrity chef personalities. His video schedule may or may not fluctuate depending on how demanding his real job becomes - his latest commission for Vishkar has set him back quite a bit, but at least his stuff’s a hell of a lot more tolerable than that mainstream nonsense. Thirty-minute meals, my ass...

He sets up camera equipment, half-heartedly checks the lighting. Today’s kind of a cheat day, though; the buzz of a jittery feeling has persisted all day against his best efforts, and he doesn’t think he can muster the energy to create his usual four-minute video. Besides, all the ingredients have already been prepared courtesy of the Amari’s. 

He inspects his hands: clean, fingernails rounded. His subscribers have a thing for manly hands gingerly manipulating tiny objects, apparently. Jesse tries not to think on it too much as he records a few takes of him scooping up some leftover chickpea mix, carefully rolling it in between thumb and index finger.

He makes a note to edit it all together.  _ Later _ , when a yawn sneaks up to him. Hm, wonder what kind of music he should put in the background…

“Hanzo, what kinda tunes you feelin’ for this week’s video?” he yells.

“Anything as long as it’s not country music.”

“Aw, come on, that’s my brand.”

“It seems ‘your brand’ is the singular thing holding you back.”

“Gimme a break,” he scoffs, holding back another yawn as he turns to glare at Hanzo, who is sitting on the counter munching on his lone falafel. It’s unbearably adorable.

“Go to sleep,” Hanzo grimaces.

“Not until you give me a decent suggestion.”

“I told you,  _ anything  _ except country.”

“Oh, okay,” Jesse says with a false smile, “then I’ll just go on bandcamp and download the first dubstep remix I can get my hands on. Least I’ll make an edgy teenager happy.”

“Pft. If you are trying to spook me, you are failing miserably. My brother used to be one of those teenagers so I consider myself immune.”

“Your brother?”

Soon as he says it Jesse sees the instant Hanzo flinches, sucking in a sharp breath. He swallows hard, alarm filling his eyes before he snaps them downcast. Arms pulling his legs in tight, shrinking up - a marvelous feat for someone as small as him.

“I would suggest a simple tune,” he mumbles, the air abruptly growing stiff with an unknown tension. “You should ask the Amari’s for some samples.”

Just as quick as he closes up Hanzo jumps to his feet, not daring to look up at Jesse’s confused expression. “Good night, McCree.”

He walks off; climbs up a cabinet to disappear into - all without a second glance. Jesse is left staring after him.

It feels like an eternity later when Jesse lifts his feet from where they are rooted. The setting sun breathes its last by the time he finishes cleaning up, lost in thought.

He walks past Hanzo’s kitchen. Glances down at the miniscule fridge. Stores the rest of the falafel inside.

He straightens up, grimacing at creaking bones, trying not to focus on the unease turning his stomach.

He turns off the light. “Good night, Hanzo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachael ray those are NOT THIRTY MINUTE MEALS
> 
> this isn't tiny kitchen-ified but I made this exact falafel recipe and I cannot get over how delicious this is: https://www.facebook.com/buzzfeedtasty/videos/2025129611082252/ (I recommend the fried version!)

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the cuteness: https://www.tastemade.com/shows/tiny-kitchen/tiny-onion-rings
> 
> Also for those who have. creative ideas about this trope: *bangs pots and pans* THIS IS G! THIS IS G!!!!!!


End file.
